The snare of death is so profane
for those in whom true valor lies.
In riddles caught, and sad refrain,
they wake in heaven to morning skies.

In pastures green, the angel forms
can now be seen by mortal men.
Their hearth and home now passed away,
they've gathered here to start again.

copyright February 1999
Judith Anne Labriola

sunflo3289@aol.com

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